


Sweet Like Fulcrum

by Futago (Jumelles_Futago)



Series: Sweets [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:29:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jumelles_Futago/pseuds/Futago
Summary: Misfire nibbles in his sleep. Whether it's on purpose or not–





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow TWO FICS TODAY. What is this. I am so f'n happy to finally post this one. This stupid thing that I thought of in the backseat of my mom's Sentra as she picked me up from work at night three years ago. That's how vividly I remember this. It was supposed to be sticky, but it didn't happen. Weh. Next time.
> 
> Hey a series. Yes I actually have others to add to this partly written.

Night time was always edgy for Fulcrum. Not that it was because he had a problem with the dark–

Stasis–

Being asleep for pretty much the entire finale of the war–

Sleeping like a newspark while a bunch of obviously screw-loose Decepticons and one Autobot did whatever they felt like on a patch-job ship– no. That was not what made him nervous–

Well...ok, it _did_ , but, that was a different type of nervousness. Leaving it up to the rag-tag team who saved him out in the graveyard was a fear-for-his-life nervousness. Like it was just one wrong move and Spinister's knives were taking him apart for useable scraps. It was a diminishing nervousness though. The more he hung around them, the more he felt they were less likely to hurt him– even Crankcase, who was _craaaankyyy_ , and probably in part to do with that draft on half his processor all the time. And if they _did_ hurt him, it was most likely an accident– frequent but still _completely_ accidental. Screw-loose meant not-quite-there judgement from time-to-time.

So Fulcrum had every right to be varying degrees of anxiousness around them, but this wasn't what made his fuel pump just that bit quicker, or whirl his spark just that bit faster or made his tank lurch more than at the usual leap of faith fueling rations. No. It wasn't the whole crew, or the things they could do to him if they so wanted that his processor spun away from him with– it was _one mech_ , and only one mech that he _had_ to room with, and until very recently was 'OK' on his list of people he had to interact with daily. Better company then Crankcase on occasions, who was above Spinister, who was above Grimlock, and Krok took top spot by default because he was the only one who seemed _normal_.

He had fretful recharges because of this mech. And it wasn't even because of something substantial like the horrid state of their courters– which had come a long, long, _long_ way since Fulcrum had started rooming with him. He had had to actually _find_ the second berth that was supposed to be in the Hab, and when he _did_ , had to scrub it at least five times– lost more than that in shades of colour, and still it felt unclean when he'd first laid on it. Nope, not even close to the reason. It was all because he _nibbled_.

On _him_.

Shouldn't be a shocker, Misfire eats _constantly_ , why would it not transfer to his sleep? Only, it is a shock when Fulcrum woke up to someone quite heavier in stature than himself, cuddling his frame like a pillow and chewing on his fingers, when he knew for certain that they'd powered down on opposite ends of the room in their respective berths. And the bites weren't constant– not that Fulcrum knew if it being a constant munch-munch-munch would make things better. But the worst part was Fulcrum couldn't _move_ – he had tons of weight grasping him tight, and the urge to scream was so, so tempting if only he wasn't scared he'd be snuffed right there for waking Misfire– and that was entirely Crankcase's fault.

First day on the ship with his new 'friends', Fulcrum had to choose someone to room with. Which was really only two because Krok roomed with Spinister, which left the lovely Crankcase or Misfire. But Crankcase had now just gotten out of rooming with Flywheels– rest his poor spark, and had blatantly, with _very_ rough words, told everyone he was having none of that roommate business. He did though have the courtesy to pull Fulcrum aside with a smirk, and, as any 'friend' should, warned him not to startle Misfire– 'Jet's crazy, rip your head right off he will,' or something like that. And Fulcrum could believe that. Misfire stuck anything in his mouth, just a sip of circuit speeders had the mech flying off the walls– more so then usual anyway– Primus knows what would happen if he got ahold of stronger stuff. Not to mention the funk he spiraled into when it cleared his systems– but that's a whole nother story.

So when 'Crazy Jet' invaded Fulcrum's berth in the middle of the night nibbling on his fingers, he couldn't move or scream because he was petrified of dieing. Right there. With it only being maybe a whole mega-cycle since he had onlined again. Yeah, no, Fulcrum _loved_ his second chance at life, thank you very much. If this mech wanted to eat at him during his recharge he was just going to lay here and take it like a good Decepticon who was very low on the food chain at the moment. Re-arranging his list to 'Most Likely to Kill Fulcrum in His Sleep' put Grimlock at the top– not even a challenger there; followed by Spinister– _Mad Doctor who hears things talk to him_ , no more information needed; Crankcase– probably for just _venting_ on him; Misfire on Circuit speeders; Krok– if the strategist thought for a moment Fulcrum could be a liability; Regular Misfire; and Fulcrum because never rule yourself out for stupid decisions.

So with that in mind, on his mind, the first couple of times it happened, he laid as still as possible and stared at the ceiling while Misfire went to town on his servo– the usual, or elbow– on special occasions, or helm recess– for those rare cuddly nights, which were the worst because it _tickled_. And when he heard Misfire cycling out of recharge, the nips abruptly stopping at the first official astrosecond of the new Sol, where some part of Misfire's processor registered _'Something better to eat if the body rises'_ – Fulcrum feigned recharge himself until the jet left him alone in the Hab.

It was completely on accident one night that Fulcrum found he had some leeway. Misfire was bitting on his wrist– going only after what was closest to his mouth, and Fulcrum had rolled onto his side tonight, one arm out– the prime target, and the other tucked under his own head. It became terribly uncomfortable after three breems, his arm that was not being gnawed on starting to hurt, but he tried to suck it up. It was probably a pinched fuel line, easily solvable by just _turning to lay on his back_ , but Fulcrum's cowardice, or as he liked to put it: _Basic Survival Instinct_ , didn't let him move a piston.

Wasn't until four cycles later that he'd finally lost all feeling in his arm, and something about Spinister having to saw it off because it had grayed from lack of energon popping into his head had made Fulcrum wiggle. At first he was going to just go for his back, because that was the easiest thing– rotate his torso and wa-la, _energon restored_. But Misfire was nomming on the arm that needed to move to the other side, and when he'd tugged, thinking he'd just replace it with the numbed wrist and all would be well, Misfire's brows had furrowed and he _growled_. It was so shocking because Misfire had only quietly nibbled on him all night long, and the noise– a loud message of _'Mine, don't you dare move'_ , had Fulcrum's fuel flow rate skyrocket and he was sure he blacked out for a bit– the fear was very real here.

Blearily, he came back to consciousness, Misfire placated by his munch-munch still being there, and the numb arm throbbing for attention. It was awkward, it was hard, and it was painful– nothing like telling a fuel-starved arm to do all the work, but he somehow managed to worm his way onto his chasis, with little to no repercussions besides a bad back in the morning.

And from then on achy backstruts became his norm. Once Misfire took off for his morning ration, Fulcrum had the pleasure of trying to straighten himself out of whatever interesting configuration he had to place himself in that night, and then hobble all the way to retrieve his own fuel. And when he started hobbling to their makeshift recroom, which was just a small room with a built-in dispenser and one table, the jibs began. Not bold, but Fulcrum could tell after the third time walking in and receiving Crankcase's _'Had a rough night?'_  that the whole Misfire walking in first in a pleasant mood– _as usual_  because, common, who _isn't_ happy to see another day when they're on the DJD's  _special_ list– and then Fulcrum a couple of kliks later rubbing his sore plating looked a mite bit suspicious.

When he put two and two together, he was flabbergasted, his jaw opening and closing, trying to say something back to Crankcase's smug look, Spinister's intrigued or possibly concerned stare, and Krok's displeased _'Really don't need to know this, let's be a little more mature here, Unicron it's only just early orn'_  glance at them all.

" I'm– we're not–" he tried to counter, but the room had just given him a _'Mm–hmm'_ , and dismissed him. _Give us proof not then_ , it said.

Fulcrum, such a poor thing, he endured another deca-cycle of it, achy joints and snickers– all with Misfire's apparently obliviousness to the predicament.

And then one day he snapped like a support beam under exceeding tension. Misfire had chewed him, slobber all in his back plates making a ghost chill on his sensors all day. He felt gross and angry and– and just fed up! He absolutely had to talk to Krok, said he would days ago, but this time he was really doing it.

Finding Krok was the easy part. Asking to have a word with him in private was also the easy part. Explaining the situation? Not so much.

It took a lot of courage to finally bring the whole thing up. A lot. And all of it left him the moment Krok said _'_ _Sure'_. Floating along behind the strategist as he weaved them through the ship, his mind squealed, spinning to answer it's screaming _What do we do now?_

Fulcrum ends up looking everywhere else in the small cubby called Captian's office except at the patiently waiting Captain. Does he just come out and say it? What would Krok do? What would Misfire do if he found out? The jet hadn't done anything yet that Fulcrum need be concerned about loosing his head over– but Crankcase said– and Fulcrum's pretty sure there was a word to wise about harmless looking mechs being cold-sparked killers. Not that Crankcase should be trusted– but if Fulcrum had to endure one more night of the nibbling jet and comments of being fragged by said jet he was going to _explode_.

  
.★Courage Restored★.

  
" Fulcrum–"

" Is it– oh, sorry, you go first." He stops, effectively derailed when they both speak up at the same time, and _WOW, look at that floor. Is that tripple-pressed steel?_

Krok just sighs, straightening a pad that doesn't need adjustment, but he does anyway, pushing it a micron over with a finger before lacing the servo with his other " I was just going to ask what you wanted to talk about."

Right, now or never Fulcrum. Commanding officer somewhat demanding what he called him in private for. " Oh, uhh, well... I-uh wanted to know if-if there were any other Habs on this ship...?" he asks– answers, with what he hopes sounds like confidence, peeking up from the most _interesting_ spot he's ever seen.

Krok's head tilts, a slight narrowing in his optics, and what Fulcrum would call pleasantness slips from his tone." Why, is Misfire giving you problems?"

Fulcrum wanted to say no, then apologize for wasting his time with how serious Krok's voice sounded– but it wasn't angry, far, far from angry or offended. And right there is where Fulcrum would say he lost what little modesty he had. He had hoped to avoid actually saying his embarrassing problem, but commanding officer wanted to know, so, Fulcrum told. "Um... sort-of? It's just that.... you see– he, he _nibbles_ –"

"I really don't need the details of your private life..." Krok cuts him off, the possibility of needing to seriously discipline someone for misconduct revealed to be just relationship problems– which Krok was not interested in counseling, and he blanches a little at the thought.

" We're not a couple!" Fulcrum shouts before he can stop himself– why is everyone jumping to the _They're totally shagging_  conclusion?! There's lots of other reasons Misfire could be crawling into Fulcrums berth while he's offline and chewing on him. Like– like some disorder or something. If Flywheels could have a transforming-because-of-lying tick there's an explanation for Misfire. Or so logic should work. Yeah.

He quickly adds a polite _'_ _Sir'_ when he comes back to himself, twiddling his fingers before stepping closer, much quieter this time " We are _not_ in a relationship." He tries not to whine because he's been saying it for cycles and yet no one listens, " He just chews on me in his sleep."

Krok doesn't look at him, maybe even makes a point to not look at him " O-kay..."

" Look, I fall asleep on _my_ side of the room, ok? Next thing I know, he's in my berth with some part of me in his mouth!" and maybe that wasn't the best wording to explain with, because the distasteful glance Fulcrum gets lets him know he's not being heard at all.

Primus this was frustrating!! " Ok, seriously, no, we are _not_ –"

Krok puts his servo up, and Fulcrum's jaw snaps shut in an automatic need to not become a target of disciplinary action, " This sound like something you just need to confront Misfire about–"

Confront? No, no, no, no! " I can't confront him!" he shouts, again, the embodiment of disrespecting your superiors this sol apparently.

" Why not?"

" Cause, he'll– he'll rip my head off! Crankcase–"

Fulcrum registers Krok's brightened optics, the stratigeist's face practically screaming _It alllll makes sense now_  with a muttered _'Crankcase...'_ , and Fulcrum pieces the two slowly together, "...he was lying to me...wasn't he..." a bit disbelieving and a bit angry with himself that he fell for it, was so trusting.

" I don't know if you've noticed, but a bitlet has more calibated-cordination then Misfire. You're more in danger of corroded wires from his.... chewing, then severe harm– under most circumstances that is..." The raised hand to his chest plate a reaction Fulcrum's sure that all victims of Misfire's _'_ _Helping-Hand'_  have on a completely automatic thread. Krok has to shake himself to come to before he can continue, " Plus, I don't really think there's more rooms in... _liveable_ conditions–"

" Less liveable then _Misfire's_ room?" the quip is half thought, still trying to get over the sting of betrayal? Deceit?

But the Captain was serious " _Safe_. The interior structure is, uh, _delicate_ in most parts of the ship."

So that was it then. There was no way out. Fulcrum was stuck sharing a room with a mech who mistook him for eatable fuel all night long for the rest of his function aboard this ship. He would have wallowed deeper if his wallowing didn't turn into bitterness. At Crankcase, at Misfire, at Krok, at this ship– Primus be damned, _NO_ – he was not taking this anymore. He may have huffed and stomped out of the office in his Fulcrum-y way– which is to say he bore a frown and walked stiffly, but there was no actual stomping involved– but he was too busy to really register it as he thought of a way to address Misfire. Give him a piece of his mind. And then give Crankcase the same.

Maybe.

Anyway, he'd approach this like an errant machine. He had run diagnostics and knew the problem– him being chewed on– and had tried the age old _'Let it be'_ , which got him nowhere. So, Fulcrum, how do you make an air-headed jet do what you want? At this point he'd like to smack him, but, how well would that go over? Probably not too good, but it would be so satisfying. Right then, he'd tackle this head on.

He laid down that night with rare determination he only gave machines and technical problems that made his spark thrum happily at their simple complexity. Tonight, he had a plan, a plan better then laying there and taking it. Misfire– he was going to get answers from him, and hopefully nip– oh primus _wording_ – this at the source. For this, he put plenty of space between him and the edge of his slab, to alert him of Misfire's approach; and he adjusts the sensors lining his plating to pick up the smallest tremor of the berth padding.There was no way Misfire was sneaking in unnoticed. And for extra protection, he caps his systems to keep himself from going into a deep recharge so he can feel the berth dip with new weight when Misfire finally climbs in. Now all he had to do was wait.

The sensitivity is a little annoying– he can feel the drafts in the room, and somewhere in the bowels of the ship Grimlock is snoring loudly– but some how he manages to doze off lightly, some systems recharging and defraging slowly as the time passes. It's a groon before something besides the ship's noises ping him.

Fulcrum's never been awake for the start, and his processor cycles more into consciousness as servos not his own touch his frame, hot vents smoothing over his plating before his intruder finally settles. He's closer tonight. His face wedging into the crook of his neck, snuffling for a while as his limbs wind tight around the K-Class, taking his first nip only after he seems satisfied– with what, he doesn't know. His smell? His hold on him?

He almost doesn't notice a breem pass he's so conditioned to lay still and ignore Misfire's chomping, but when he does, his ire quickly overtakes him.

Wiggling his at least one of his arms free, he pushes against him, trying to shake him awake. "Misfire!" he calls, and again a little louder, _not_ desperately at all, when the jet only grips him tighter. That damn growling was back, a low rumble in his audial before Fulcrum shouts in surprise. The fragg'n maroon, stupid, uncoordinated, pice of slag just chomped on him like rock candy! Harder and harder– oh sweet Primus capped sensors– immeasurable pain!

Fulcrum's feet kick out with the exceeding threshold of sensation as Misfire doesn't let up. It's with desperation to make the pain stop that he decks him. Swift uppercut to the jaw with all his strength and hatred behind his fist. It seemed to be jarring enough to finally wake the beast, startled gasps from both of them as they separate.

He scurries away by what little distance remained from the wall to cradle his poor neck. Misfire almost tumbles off the berth, cursing as he grips his jaw. Well– good! At least he was awake now!

" _Ow_ , what the– "

" Oh _no_ , don't you 'what's going on' me! I've had it up to hear with you!" Fulcrum snaps at him, and the feeling of wanting to beat the slag out of the jet makes him bring his peed down on his leg.

" I'm not a chew toy! Stop crawling into _my_ berth and eating me you stupid!"

_Clang!_

" No good!"

_Clang!_

" Bolts for brains!"

_Clang, clang, clang!_

Contrary to what Crankcase said and _exactly_ how Krok predicted Misfire was not a deranged beast out to kill Fulcrum at being woken. He was a disoriented, sleep-adled dolt who probably wanted nothing more then to return to recharge, squinting while wondering why the world was so bright in the dark.

Misfire looks down at the surface between them, and then turns to look behind him at _his_ berth. When his head swings back around, he looks straight a Fulcrum, mouth in a slight frown as he blinks once.

" I have no idea how I got here." he says confused and dead serious.

Fulcrum is speechless to say the least. He didn't know? How the speck could he not know?!

" Oh, wait– maybe–" Misfire leans into him, and Fulcrum's first reaction is to jerk back, but the wall stops him from dodging the jet. Misfire plants his face into Fulcrum's stiff plating, _sniffing_ him! _And it tickled!_ Gah!

When Misfire draws back there's a dazed look in his optics as he licks his lips. " Mmm, yep. You smell sweet."

" _What_." Uh, gross!

" Ohh, am I attracted to you?" Misfire looks down at his own frame, patting his plating "Hm, I don't feel aroused though–"

" Oh my god, _stop_!" Fulcrum hissed, seriously contemplating kicking him in the face. " First off, that is _never_ going to happen. Ever. And Second, _control_ yourself! I smell good so you come in to _my_ berth and decide to eat me?"

" I can't help it if you smell tantalizing–" He whined, whined! Like it was Fulcrum's fault for releasing such a come-hither aroma that was only effective against Misfire.

" No. You figure out how or I will. Or I'll get Spinister to. One of those three." Fulcrum issued his ultimatum and took great pleasure in watching Misfire viscerally react to the thought of Spinister doing something unspeakable to him; repair work was harrowing enough.

" Now get out of my berth and stay that way."

He need not say or do any more, Misfire jumping up and out of Fulcrum's berth to run to his own, and he hoped it stayed that way. For the first time in a long time Fulcrum got a good night's rest, which he was going to need, because getting back at Crankcase started tomorrow.


End file.
